


Smaragdine

by WildAndFreeHearts



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Drunkenness, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Self-Denial, Sibling Incest, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 13:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4707437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildAndFreeHearts/pseuds/WildAndFreeHearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It looks like Carver has moved on from needing Garret now that he's a Warden. Garrett doesn't take the possibility of being without his brother very well. Carver doesn't really either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hawke Gets Drunk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lillian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillian/gifts).



> This is your second gift, Lillian! It's not quite done yet, and it's kind of super angst-filled right now, but it will all get better soon, promise! This is kind of growing out of your prompt about when Carver was like "I have important Grey Warden stuff to do now, bro." and Garrett's fallout over that and stuff.

It wasn’t every day that Garrett decided to get piss drunk, but this was definitely a day worth getting drunk over. He wasn’t at the Hanged Man, surprisingly. Or unsurprisingly actually, as there was no way he wanted Varric, or Maker forbid, Isabela, to see him the way he was tonight. No. He was in his own room, sitting in a puddle of covers on his bed, with several bottles of the expensive imported Tevinter wines from his cellar, pretending not to be a crying, blubbering mess. He was failing miserably, because instead of turning his brain off like he had wanted, now he couldn’t seem to make the all the thoughts he didn’t want to have from happening all at the same time, like a never–ending tidal wave of repressed guilt and pain.

Garrett tried casually looking over at the letter he had on the far nightstand, but wound up glaring accusingly at it instead. When Carver had sent word that his work with the Wardens would send him near Kirkwall, Garrett had thought it a blessing in disguise. But the reception he had received when he had gone to greet his brother had been dismissive at best. Carver had even said in no uncertain terms that he had better things to do then deal with Garrett.

Carver didn’t need Garrett. He never had. It was something Garrett had always known, something he had tried to instill in Carver for as long as he could remember. Just because Carver was second in birth, didn’t mean he was second as a person, second as a man. In fact, in some of Garrett’s weaker moments he may have occasionally admitted that he knew Carver was the better of the two of them – saying so had always left Carver moody and irate at him for long times afterward, however. But that didn’t make it any less true. Carver just never seemed to believe it himself.

And so maybe he had taken for granted all the times that Carver had rejected his own inner strength and let Garrett lead them, barreling like brontos in china cabinets toward mischief and danger. Maybe somewhere along the way Garrett had become so sure of himself as to become complacent in ways that he never should have. And maybe after the millionth time, Carver had actually started to believe what Garrett had been saying all along. The only thing that was for certain was that Garrett had never thought he could be drought so low.

Garrett had no family left. Everyone was gone. But all the others had left because they were... gone. Caver was still there, but wasn’t, something absent behind the light that used to spark in his eyes when they were around each other. It had taken time for Garrett to figure out just what it was that was that was missing: it was the adoration. Carver didn’t adore him anymore. He didn’t want to go running into mayhem with Garrett anymore. His armor had become silverite and his eyes had become emeralds, solid, hard, cold. No, perhaps not cold. Anger might have given Garrett something to work with. It was indifference. Carver acted as if he didn’t care for him at all. Because Carver didn’t need him.

But Garrett had always needed Carver. It was something else that he had always been sure of, but he had never dared to say it aloud, for fear of what admitting it might lead to. He didn’t want Carver to reject him. He couldn’t live without him.

Now it seemed he’d have to do just that.

But perhaps it was better this way. It was better that they were apart, because now Carver could flourish and become the man Garrett had always seen inside his brother – a man at least twice as amazing on the inside as he was on the outside. Which was saying something, because Carver was really attractive on the outside – eyes soft like verdant moss, an intelligent brow, firm jaw and pouty, kissable lips. And sweet Andraste, he was built like a brick wall, thick muscle for days.

Now instead of glaring at the letter, Garrett was glaring at the bottle in his hand, for allowing such traitorous thoughts to form so freely. Thoughts like those were the type he hadn’t let take root in his head for a very long time, ever since he had been of an age to realize what thoughts like that meant. Better to stamp things like that down, quash them dead as they grew. Even if they still lingered in the back recesses of his mind where he couldn’t reach to obliterate them all like he needed to.

 _‘Don’t you mean like you_ want _to?’_ a back-stabbing little voice of judgment niggled.

For some reason he beyond any doubt did _not_ want to examine to closely, anger welled up in him like hot magma. “Fuck off, it’s the same thing!” he shouted hoarsely at the empty air. Then, in a motion that reminded him unhumorously of Fenris, he chunked his last Sun Blonde at the wall. The loud smashing noise and large burst pattern on the wallpaper left Garrett with a dark sense of satisfaction, before he flopped down to cocoon himself in his bed sheets and began to pretend that the way his life was now was simply a bad dream and that when he finally woke up he wouldn't be lusting after his own flesh and blood, like some sick freak.


	2. Varric Pays a Visit to Hawke

Garrett did wake up. Unfortunately, that was only because he had passed out drunk. His life was still exactly the fucking same. Except maybe the sun was a million times brighter than he remembered as he shuffled by his window and apparently his bedroom door screeched like a shriek on its hinges, instead of its normal soft, comforting, wispy whine. And speaking of whining, there was Doggit, his mabari, all big, dumb enthusiasm coming down the hall, making a beeline at a fast clip. Garrett hardly had time to register that what was about to happen would hurt even more than usual, before he found himself flat of his back, head throbbing in agony. Doggit stood triumphantly over his prone body, his massive paws bearing down on Garrett’s chest as he began licking and slobbering wetly all over his owner’s face.

“That’s disgusting, stop! Stop it, I said!” Garrett grouched, irritated but oddly comforted at the disgusting display of affection, while trying to push the dog’s face away. Doggit danced back, bouncing about in a circle, before sitting back on his haunches and giving an excited bark. Garret flinched at the noise, and then cringed, as the flinching had also hurt. He used the corner of his robe sleeve to wipe the grossness off his face, staring irked at is overly eager pet. At that point Doggit tilted his head and gave an obviously very false apologetic whine. This was what happened every morning after Doggit wasn’t allowed in his room the previous night.

Garrett sighed and stood up, eyes closed dejectedly the entire time, silently making a creative string of curses in his mind at his hangover, while simultaneously trying to decide what he absolutely had to do today instead of just napping it away while drinking elfroot tea. A polite cough, followed by a joyous bark made his eyes snap open.

Varric was standing just down the hallway, giving Garrett one of the most invasive looks he had ever seen in his life. The unimpressed, cutting gaze made Garrett want to slink back into his room and close the door. Somehow, due to that level of scrutiny he was pinned just as effectively as if two of Varric’s arrows were piercing through his feet and into the floorboards. All he could do was shuffle a bit in place awkwardly. “You missed a great set of wicked grace last night, Hawke. I thought I should come over and check up on you, since you never showed.”

Garrett had to stop himself from rolling his eyes or breaking what he hoped was neutral demeanor to flush in self-shame. He hadn’t remembered that he had made plans with Varric last night – he was too caught up in his own pity party to think about anything else. “Yeah. Uh, sorry about that. I’m good.”

Varric’s smile was of a knowing sort. “You sure, kid? You look a bit green around the gills. More fish than Hawke.” He started to scratch Doggit behind the ears, which the mabari leaned into with a happy woof.

 _‘Traitor.’_ Garrett thought narrowing his eyes at his dear pet slightly, before slumping, defeated. There was no way he could out-talk Varric on the best of days, so even attempting it in the shape he was in would have been pointless. “Fine. I’m not. Fine, that is. I’m not fine. Ugh, fuck sake. You know what I mean Varric.”

“Kind of, but not really. I work better with specifics.” Varric quipped easily.

Garrett had really lost count of the times he wanted to lift his dwarf companion up and shake him since they’d met. He was sure the number was fairly high. “Carver is back in town.”

“Back in town, but not back here.” He lifted his hand from Doggit’s head to flick his wrist in a general sweeping motion, obviously meant to imply the estate. His eyebrow was raised archly.

Garrett nodded, even though it obviously wasn’t a question. His head throbbed briefly and he rubbed at it, sighing, sifting his weight. “Yeah. I talked to him yesterday and… it wasn’t what I was expecting. I guess I didn't take it very well.” 

Varric made a small hum of understanding. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sure everything will be fine, he’ll come around. Just give him time to knock the mud off his boots.”

Varric’s smile was invariably infectious – Garrett felt a grin of his own spreading to match. “Okay. Yeah, I’m sure you’re right.” Actually, he wasn't so sure. Something about being around his friend made his hopes rise a tiny amount and made his worries a small fraction less, like it always did though. Maybe he should have gone to the Hanged Man last night after all.

Varric’s chuckle made Doggit’s stumpy tail thump happily on the floorboards. “Aren’t I always?”


End file.
